Infiltration Rescue

By Susan Cliff

Facing her past

Could mean losing her future.

Running away had saved her life but Avery Samuels could run no longer. Having spent thirteen years in a cult, she was good at hiding, but Special Agent Nick Diaz needed Avery to face her past. Posing as Nick’s wife to infiltrate the cult was a dangerous plan. But Avery had a secret to uncover and Nick was the only man she trusted to make her nightmares disappear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781488064067

Susan Cliff

Susan Cliff is a longtime romance reader, part-time writer and full-time California girl. She loves to daydream about exciting adventures in exotic locales. Her books feature heartfelt romance, gripping suspense, elite Navy SEAL heroes and unique heroines. Get swept away with San Diego's finest from "Team Twelve"!

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Chapter 1

Avery Samuels rested her forehead against the steering wheel and groaned.

It had been a hell of a day. A fifteen-year-old boy had come to school with a handgun. His actions had resulted in a campus lockdown, followed by an evacuation of students and staff. As the district psychologist, Avery was trained to handle intense situations, and to counsel students in the aftermath of traumatic events. She’d listened to frantic teens and parents while the young offender got dragged away in handcuffs. There would be more fallout tomorrow, but at least the incident hadn’t ended in bloodshed.

Trying to think positively, she gathered her belongings from the passenger seat. Rain pattered against the corrugated aluminum rooftop of the carport. It made a pleasant melody that neither lifted her spirits nor pummeled them further. Perhaps a cup of tea would do the trick. A cup of tea, some hot soup, cozy slippers. She felt a pang of sorrow for Smoke, who wouldn’t be there to greet her at the doorway. Her phone chimed inside her purse, reminding her of a text she’d ignored earlier. She’d been too busy to read it, much less respond. Retrieving the device, she checked the screen.

A man named Agent Diaz is on his way to see you. Please talk to him.

Avery frowned at the message from her aunt Ruth, who wasn’t really her aunt. She’d taken Avery in at thirteen and raised her like a daughter. They weren’t related by blood, but they were still close.

Avery put her phone back in her purse and exited the vehicle. She’d call Ruth as soon as she got out of the rain. She couldn’t imagine why Ruth wanted her to speak to an insurance agent—on a stormy evening, no less, after regular business hours. Avery didn’t like strangers coming to her home. Ruth knew that better than anyone.

Avery held her jacket over her head and made a mad dash from the carport to her upper-floor apartment. As she climbed the steps, she became aware of two figures on the landing. She didn’t see them until she’d almost reached her door. She’d been distracted by the challenge of navigating wet stairs in high heels, her vision obscured by rain, and the edges of her jacket. There also wasn’t much daylight left, at dusk.

She froze at the sound of a male voice. He gave an ordinary greeting, nonthreatening, but she hadn’t expected anyone to be standing there. His physical presence added to her unease. He was a dark shadow of a man, tall and broad-shouldered. Although she couldn’t see his face in the gloom, she knew he was a stranger. She faltered on the next step and lost her footing. She might have tumbled over the railing if the man hadn’t reached out to steady her. He grasped her elbow, quick as lightning. He’d probably saved her from a fall, but she didn’t thank him for the courtesy. She was too stunned by his speed and strength. His unyielding grip manacled her forearm, holding her prisoner.

The contact triggered something inside her, something twisted and tortured and long-buried. Adrenaline surged in her bloodstream. She forgot about Ruth and the insurance issue. She forgot about the stressful day at work, and her plans for a quiet evening. Her thoughts raced to her worst-nightmare scenario:

They’d found her. After all these years, they’d found her.

In her mind’s eye, she saw flashes of her childhood home. She remembered the rituals, the punishments. The horrors she’d escaped from. They couldn’t take her back there. Not without a fight. She reset her feet on the slippery landing, bracing for a struggle. She’d protect her freedom with whatever means necessary.

Instead of hauling her away, the man released her arm. Sorry, he said in an even tone. I didn’t mean to startle you.

He had a faint Spanish accent. It was quite pleasant, really. Avery’s jacket slid from her slack hand, but she managed to hang on to her purse and briefcase. She glanced from the shadow-man to his less intimidating companion. A trim woman in her fifties stood at his elbow. They were both wearing raincoats over business attire.

These people weren’t from the cult. They were insurance agents.

Avery wilted against the railing, weak with relief. Laughter bubbled from her lips. She was still in a state of panic, her pulse pounding in her ears. She just needed a moment to collect herself. The deluge continued, unabated. The man studied her with interest. Rain plastered her hair to her head as she stared back at him. He looked like a professional. Even so, he didn’t fit her mental picture of an insurance salesman. He was too alert, too imposing. There was nothing jovial or benign about his expression.

The woman at his side flashed a badge on her waistband. I’m Special Agent Richards. This is Special Agent Diaz. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Avery blinked a few times as she digested the information. They were FBI agents. No wonder they were here after hours, standing in the rain with somber faces. She was afraid to ask what they wanted. Her tension resurged, making her shiver.

Special Agent Diaz spoke next. Are you Avery Samuels?

Yes.

We have some questions for you.

Special Agent Richards tilted her head toward the door. Inside, if you don’t mind.

Prompted into motion, Avery retrieved her jacket and fumbled for her keys. She entered the security code as soon as she stepped inside. They ventured in after her. She set her belongings on the entry table, feeling self-conscious. She must look like a drowned rat with her wet hair and smudged makeup. At least her apartment was presentable. She kept it tidy, even though she rarely entertained visitors. When she gestured at the coatrack, they hung up their dripping jackets next to hers.

What’s this about? she asked, swallowing hard.

It’s about The Haven, Diaz replied.

Although she’d suspected as much, hearing the words spoken out loud had a chilling effect. She balled her hands into fists, uncertain. She never talked about the cult. She wasn’t in contact with anyone from the commune. She’d left that life behind, but the fear had stayed with her. A part of her had always known her past would catch up to her. She just hadn’t expected it to arrive on her doorstep in the middle of a storm.

She smoothed her dripping hair and tried to stay calm. Aunt Ruth wanted her to talk to these people. Playing dumb wasn’t Avery’s strong suit, and lying to the FBI was a crime, so she gestured toward the living room. She would listen to their questions. When they found out how little she knew, they’d leave.

Have a seat, she said.

Special Agent Diaz waited for Avery and his partner to precede him. Avery sat down in her favorite reading chair. Richards got settled on the couch. Diaz took the space next to her, directly across from Avery.

She folded her hands in her lap. A multicolored blanket she’d knitted herself was draped over the side of the chair. She wished she could hide underneath it. Instead of dragging the cozy fabric over her trembling form, she focused on Special Agent Diaz.

He was nice to look at, if you liked rawboned men with big hands. She imagined most women did. He was ruggedly attractive, with hardened features that hinted at outdoor pursuits. His hair was dark and close-cropped, his collar damp. If his accent wasn’t enough to stir interest, the rest of him would do it. She was too nervous to examine his physique in detail, but she got the impression of a lean build. She guessed he was in his late thirties, younger than Richards by at least a decade. Richards was probably his superior, but she didn’t take the lead. The older woman seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

Diaz cleared his throat before he began. I’m working with the Department of Homeland Security on a domestic terrorism investigation. There was an attack on FBI personnel by an underground militia known as the White Army. It’s a white nationalist group with religious ties. We believe they were organized by the leader of The Haven.

Avery couldn’t hide her trepidation. This was worse than she’d thought. The cult leader wasn’t just preying on the innocent women and children under his wing. He was targeting law enforcement outside the commune. The FBI wouldn’t turn a blind eye on a terrorist attack. What do you want from me?

We need information, he said, leaning forward. We know almost nothing about the cult or its practices. We’ve only recently learned of its existence.

Why do you think I can help you?

You’re the only former member we’ve been able to locate.

Who told you I was a member?

Weren’t you?

Avery turned her attention to Richards. Are you his boss?

I’m a liaison from the Portland office, Richards said. Investigators from out of state are required to coordinate with local law enforcement before they conduct interviews. He also thought you might feel more comfortable with a female agent present.

Diaz didn’t deny the claim. His instincts were correct; Avery wouldn’t have let him inside her apartment if he’d come alone. She was wary of strangers, especially male strangers. Richards’s age and supervisory attitude helped. She had the air of an experienced matriarch who didn’t miss anything.

How did you find me? she asked him.

I searched for adolescent wards of the state in this area. Your file mentioned a possible religious upbringing and unknown parentage. It’s unusual.

It’s also sealed.

I got a court order, Diaz said.

Avery could connect the dots from there. He’d read her file and gone to Ruth for more information. Avery had changed her name after she’d reached adulthood, so he wouldn’t have been able to track her down without speaking to her aunt first. Ruth was the only one who could tell him about Avery’s strange origins. Ruth had trusted Diaz enough to share Avery’s most closely guarded secret.

Avery, however, did not trust him. She had a lot to lose by getting involved as a witness. She didn’t want to testify in court or become a target for a right-wing militia. And what relevant information could she offer at this point? She hadn’t been near the commune in twenty years. She didn’t even know its exact location.

I was a child when I left, she said. My memories are...incomplete.

Diaz’s gaze searched hers. According to the sheriff’s report, you were thirteen. Old enough to survive in the woods on your own for several weeks. You must have walked a hundred miles, barefoot.

She rose abruptly, her stomach queasy. She didn’t want to relive those days. She had no idea how far she’d walked, or how long she’d been living like an animal in the wilderness. Sleeping in the dirt. Eating bugs. I need to make some tea.

He settled back against the couch, unperturbed. Take all the time you need.

Richards started scrolling through her phone. It occurred to Avery that she should call someone to check their credentials. She couldn’t tell if they were legit by looking at them. Confirming their identities seemed wise before she agreed to share personal details. She crossed the room and dug her phone out of her purse. The screen showed another text message notification. It was Ruth again, asking if Avery was okay.

She wasn’t okay. She was on the verge of a meltdown. She had to tell two strangers about her disturbing childhood, because Ruth had directed them to her. Avery felt obligated to assist the investigation. Turning them away would be cowardly, and it went against her code of ethics. Maybe she could help disband the cult, and free its members from their psychological prison. Innocent lives were at stake.

She always encouraged the young people she worked with to talk about traumatic events. She asked them to share their feelings and allow themselves to be vulnerable. It was a healthy part of the grieving process. But this physician had never been able to heal herself.

After she put the teapot on the stove, and turned up the heat on the thermostat, she placed a call to the local FBI field office. She had to wait several minutes to speak with a real person. The staff member asked for badge numbers, which Richards and Diaz recited dutifully. They didn’t seem fazed by Avery’s diligence. The man on the phone identified both agents as genuine. As proof, he sent Avery a temporary text message with photo IDs attached. Avery studied an official picture of Diaz in a dark suit, holding his badge up. His first name was Nicolas. He looked younger, but not lighter of spirit. The photo stayed on her screen for about thirty seconds before it disappeared.

The teapot whistled, letting off steam. She fixed a tray with three mugs. Richards accepted a cup. Diaz declined. A manila folder had been placed on the surface of the table, along with a pen. Avery had to sign an agreement to be interviewed. She was assured that her statement would be kept confidential.

Diaz had an app on his phone to record their conversation. He also took out a writing pad to take notes by hand. He started by identifying himself, Special Agent Richards and Avery. She reached for the wool blanket and wrapped it around her body. Her fingers shook with apprehension.

Do you have any questions before we begin? Diaz asked.

Yes. How did you know I walked a hundred miles?

He removed a printed map from the folder. According to our intelligence, the commune is off the grid in an undeveloped area of Northern California. There was a mark on the spot. Diaz moved his fingertip north. You turned up here, in Lorella, Oregon.

Avery examined the distance. She hadn’t flown over those mountains. She’d hiked along trails and back roads when she could. When she couldn’t, she’d trekked through forests with thorny underbrush. I had shoes.

Pardon?

I had shoes, she said, moistening her lips. I wore them until they fell apart. I wasn’t barefoot until the end.

He lifted his gaze from the map. Is that why you stopped in Lorella?

She hadn’t stopped so much as she’d been caught raiding Ruth’s garden, but she didn’t say that. The memory made her stomach queasy. She’d gotten sick on summer squash and couldn’t move. Ruth had found her curled up in a sunflower patch, half-conscious.

There are a dozen small towns between the commune and Oregon, he said. You didn’t seek help in any of them.

I wanted to leave California.

Why?

I thought Oregon was a different country, and that I’d be safe if I crossed the border. It was an embarrassing admission, revealing the extreme isolation and ignorance she’d been kept in. Neither Diaz nor Richards appeared surprised by it.

Diaz rifled through the papers under the map. He had several color photographs of varying quality. The man in the first picture caused Avery’s blood to run cold. Do you know who this is?

She took another sip of tea before answering. The cult leader had more gray in his hair and beard, but she’d recognize him anywhere. She still had nightmares of being his child bride. It’s Father Jeff.

What can you tell us about him?

He’s the leader of The Haven. The people worship him like a god.

Diaz showed her another photo. And this?

Avery studied the bespectacled young man with black hair and serious eyes. He looked like the Father Jeff she’d known twenty years ago. Jeff had two sons around Avery’s age, by two different wives. Sister wives. It looks like one of Jeff’s sons. Jonah.

The next photo depicted a member of Jeff’s militia. He was wearing an army jacket, holding an AR-15. His belligerent scowl triggered Avery’s memory. That’s Jeremiah, she said. I went to school with him.

But not Jonah?

Jonah had private lessons, separate from the rest of the children. Father Jeff said he was gifted.

Jeremiah wasn’t?

No. He had behavior problems. Always in trouble.

Did he get punished?

She returned the photo to the stack. Although punishments for disobedience had been severe in the commune, she didn’t recall Jeremiah being forced to kneel in the corner or hit with a switch. As the leader’s firstborn son, he was given free rein. Avery had once spent an evening locked in the storm cellar for shoving Jeremiah after he’d pulled on her braids. The experience had taught her to endure his abuse without complaint.

It was a sad lesson, one of many in her childhood, but it had a silver lining. The resentment she’d carried over the incident had given fuel to her rebellion. Without Jeremiah’s bullying, and those hours in the dark, tomb-like space, she wouldn’t have drummed up the courage to escape. The cellar story was unpleasant, and indicative of the emotional torment she’d been subjected to. Even so, it paled in comparison with the events surrounding her mother’s death. She didn’t know if she was capable of recounting that tale.

Ms. Samuels? Diaz prompted.

I don’t remember him being punished, she said. He was a year older, and we weren’t in the same classes. Boys and girls were separated.

How was the community structured outside of school?

She set her tea aside, thinking. It was highly gendered. Ruled by male elders. Women were expected to stay home and care for children. Some girls were chosen as brides as soon as they turned fourteen. Others were allowed to wait.

Did they marry boys their age?

No, they didn’t. Boys had to work in a trade for fourteen years before they became eligible for marriage. The youngest husbands were twenty-eight. After fourteen more years, they could ask for a second wife, but not everyone earned this honor. It was reserved for Father Jeff’s most loyal followers.

How many wives did he have?

Three, when I left.

At thirteen.

Yes.

Were you chosen as a bride?

I might have been, if I’d stayed.

Is that what prompted your decision to leave?

She glanced at Richards, moistening her lips.

Diaz interpreted her reluctance clearly. Would you rather continue without me? I can leave the room.

No, Avery said. He was a good interviewer, and the warmer personality of the two. Her reticence had little to do with him, though she found it difficult to meet his eyes. They were too intense, too arresting. She also didn’t want to continue, period. She wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about this to anyone. I ran away for two reasons. First, because I didn’t want to get married at fourteen. Father Jeff had already told my stepfather that I’d become a bride on my birthday, to whomever he selected as my husband.

What did your stepfather say?

Nothing. He was okay with it, but my mother cried when she found out. She thought I was too young. She begged him to ask Father Jeff to wait another year.

Did he?

No.

She accepted his decision?

No, she didn’t, Avery admitted. She talked about running away as soon as the weather cleared. Then she got pregnant, after a series of miscarriages. She wasn’t in any position to leave with me, and I wouldn’t go on my own.

What specific events led to your escape? Diaz asked.

My mom went into labor that summer, a month before her due date. The midwife came to help. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn’t allowed in the room. I could hear her screaming. She exhaled a ragged breath, blinking rapidly. Sorry.

Don’t be, he said. Take your time.

After a short pause, she continued. My stepfather slapped me for getting hysterical. He told me to pray for her, so I did. I prayed for hours. She omitted the visit by Father Jeff, who’d attempted to console her in the creepiest manner possible. When they finally let me see her, it was too late.

Neither Richards nor Diaz expressed any condolences. Avery appreciated their silence while she regained her composure. Talking about her mother’s death hadn’t torn her apart as much as she’d expected, but she had a lot of practice holding her emotions at bay. She pushed past the pain in her chest and forced the words out. I asked to be alone with her to say goodbye. Then I climbed out the window and started running. I thought I’d be killed if I got caught, but I didn’t care. Death seemed better than staying in the commune and marrying an old man. So I jumped the fence and ran into the woods, as far as I could. I didn’t have any food or water. I didn’t even have a jacket. I almost gave up the first night.

What kept you going?

Grief, I guess. Fear. Tears flooded her eyes, finally. Proof that she had real emotions. Also, I was lost. I couldn’t have found my way back if I wanted to.

Diaz offered her his handkerchief. It was an ordinary gray pocket square, nothing fancy. Richards’s brow furrowed with disapproval, as if she thought he was overdoing the chivalry. Avery didn’t agree. Touched by the gesture, she accepted the square of fabric.

Was there a road?

There was a dirt road, only accessible by SUVs. I stayed far away from it because I could hear them looking for me. I headed east, toward the sunrise. Then I followed a creek alongside the highway. If I saw a person, I’d hide.

What did you drink?

I stole a jug from a construction site and filled it up wherever I could. She didn’t say what she’d eaten, because she couldn’t bear to think about it. By the time I got to Oregon, I was starving. I raided Ruth’s garden one afternoon. I didn’t even wait until dark.

She gave us a picture of you, Diaz said, reaching into the file folder.

Avery hadn’t seen the photo before. She was in a hospital bed, eyes closed, with an IV in her thin arm. She looked wild and emaciated. Her hair was tangled with debris, her face dirty. Although she didn’t recognize herself in the photo, she felt exposed by it all the same. She felt like an oddity to be studied by scientists. A feral creature. No wonder Ruth had taken her in. She’d always had a soft spot for wounded animals.

Avery turned the picture facedown and slid it across the table. Now it was impossible to meet Diaz’s eyes. She didn’t know why she felt so ashamed. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been a victim of childhood trauma. She vastly preferred being on the other side of the couch, doing the psychoanalyzing.

Diaz tucked away the photo without comment. Maybe he admired her courage, but what she saw in the image wasn’t that. It was